Suck on that, Princeton.

I just finished watching Mystery Science Theatre 3000, The Movie. I was returned to 1995; Clinton was the president, Gorbachev jokes were still vogue, and humor was a simple equation for my friend Brett and I. Most sleep-overs took place at his house, considering he had Oregon Trail on the computer, super Nintendo, unlimited Nerf toys and satellite television ... whereas my house had public radio and was wood-heated. To be fair, though, my house had superior food. At Brett's, meal time was typically sugary cereal or white rice with butter. My mother, on the other hand, would prepare vegetable lasagna, sautéed tofu sandwiches on home-made bread, pancakes in the shape of Mickey Mouse.

In retrospect, my house developed us as physical young men quite effectively. We were compelled to play outside by the complete lack of lazy enertainment inside; kicking soccer balls through the laundry line supports, hitting rocks with baseball bats against the corregated walls of the International Curling Club, throwing water-balloons off the roofs of downtown businesses after scaling the fire escapes. Granted, Brett had a sizable collection of Super-Soakers and a Slip 'n Slide... so on hot days, it was really a toss up.

However, Brett's house held the coup de grace... the nudie channel. Somehow Brett was able to decipher the pass-code of the parental lock on his satellite receiver. If I remember correctly, it was the expiration date of his father's credit card. (Please don't ask me how he knew his parents' credit card information... not only did my parents not own a credit card, we did not own a microwave, a computer, or a CD player.) So, after guffawing at Mystery Science theatre 3000 and stealthily ascertaining that his parents had truly retired for the evening, we would punch in that sacred numerical cypher and gawk at the nubile bodies afforded by the soft-core cable porn industry of the day. Those are sweet memories.

Anyway, recounting this is relatively pointless. What chiefly compelled me to start orating about it was the simple fact that the fictitious hero of the movie was wearing a UW-Stout sweatshirt. Suck on that, Princeton.